


The Reunion

by ZoS



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Humor, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25941160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoS/pseuds/ZoS
Summary: One year after quitting her job, Andy goes back to Paris Fashion Week, much to her former co-workers' dismay.
Relationships: Miranda Priestly/Andrea Sachs
Comments: 47
Kudos: 363





	The Reunion

Andy isn't afraid of Miranda Priestly. She stopped being afraid around the time she quit her job, unceremoniously as it was, in the middle of Fashion Week, bolstered by her ideals, audacity, and courage, however dumb, to throw her work-issued phone in the Place de la Concorde fountain. Full disclosure: she did spend a few days worrying for her career, but that issue resolved itself the moment she was accepted into a newspaper job thanks to a personal recommendation letter from Miranda. So no, Andy is no longer afraid of Miranda Priestly: she isn't anxious about losing her job, isn't scared of judgemental glares, verbal abuse, unprefrossional mistreatment, or even turning into stone with the lift of an eyebrow, and she definitely doesn't think that Miranda is going to kill her.

"If she sees you, she'll kill you," are Nigel's exact words, right after demanding, "What are you doing here?" Here being Paris. More specifically, Paris Fashion Week.

"Why?" is Andy's blithe response, accompanyied by a shrug. "I'm here for work." She's been sent by her editor to cover the event from the point of view of the buyers, influencers, and overall movers and shakers, and a few familiar, Hollywood faces wouldn't hurt sales either. She neglects to mention that she practically had to beg said editor to allow her to go instead of the culture columnist, using her past in the fashion industry as leverage. For the first time in its history, _The New York Mirror_ is going to dedicate a column to Paris Fashion Week, and Andy'd be damned if she let the golden opportunity pass her by.

Nigel gives her a duly incredulous look before dryly claiming, "If you think that's going to stop her, you clearly don't know Miranda nearly as well as you thought." He might still be bitter about the job opportunity Miranda stole from under his nose, Andy guesses, and to be fair, he has every right to be. Still, she thinks his reaction stems mostly from his and everyone else's in the fashion world usual flare for dramatics. Either way--

"She's not here right now, is she?" she states matter-of-factly, gesturing around for emphasis. They're standing near the bar at a ritzy party hosted by Lagerfeld. Andy has never been too fond of the guy, but she has to admit that he does know how to throw a good party; she was already on her second glass of champagne, savoring the taste of luxury she hadn't realized she'd missed so much, when Nigel spotted and approached her. Miranda, as is her custom, already left shortly after arriving, only showing up to make her presence known and shake a few hands. Andy, for her part, has been making sure to avoid being in the same room as her ever since landing in France, although she supposes an eventual meeting is inevitable.

"Well, it's comforting to see you at least haven't forgotten everything I taught you," Nigel concedes sourly, giving her the old once-over. He goes as far as placing two fingers on her hip to turn her slightly, giving her ass an arched glance to Andy's amusement. "Pas mal."

"You were a great teacher." She gives him a sweet smile that shines as bright as the sequins on her snug dress.

"Of course I was," he replies and downs the rest of his negroni, placing the empty glass on the bar. "Well, if they find your body in the Louvre's basement, let it be known that I warned you," he continues lightly before sympathetically patting her shoulder and leaving to the sound of her laughter.

\---

The next day, after the mesmerizing _Tom Ford_ show, Andy is still hungover. It's the second to last day of Fashion Week and so she let herself loosen up a little after Nigel had left her to speak to more important people. Perhaps more than a little.

Backstage, she tries to avoid the bright, flashing lights of cameras and zone out the noises of yelling photographers and gushing interviewers. It's hard when she's supposed to be an interviewer herself, and at the very least she forgoes a complimentary champagne flute and trades it in for her worn-out notebook. She tries to find Eric, the disgruntled photographer her editor sent with her, among the massive crowd, all the while ignoring the pounding headache the blaring music only worsens.

"You!" she hears behind her, over the loud speakers, and spins, but it's not Eric glaring at her from underneath neon blue and green eyelids.

"Emily," Andy laughs, offering her old co-worker a fond smile. Emily, on the other hand, looks less than ecstatic to see her.

"What are you doing here?" she inquires, much like Nigel did the night before, and plants both hands on her hips. She looks stunning, stick-thin as she may be, in a _Valentino_ sheath, hundreds of small rhinstones sparkling and gleaming along her cleavage wherever the light touches. Her leg has certainly healed, as well as her face, although with the heavy layer of makeup covering it, it's hard to really tell. "Did you come to ruin this fashion week, too?"

"It's good to see you, too, Emily," Andy says happily, willfully ignoring the barb.

"Don't suck up," she shoots. "Does Miranda know you're here?"

"Not unless you told her."

"Do you think I'm going to tell her something like that?" she rages, eyes wide in disbelief. Perhaps melodrama, Andy muses, is more inherent in the world she's left than she realized.

"I see you finally got to come to Paris," she changes the subject again. It seems to have the desired effect because Emily's shoulders draw back, she raises her head, literally looking down her nose at Andy, and sniffs snootily.

"Yes, well," she replies haughtily, "this time you couldn't steal it from me."

"I'm glad," Andy says kindly, not rising to the bait. She also concedes, after months of pondering Miranda's words that faitful day during the last fashion week, that in some way she did steal Emily's opportunity the same way Miranda stole Nigel's. "You deserve to be here."

Emily, maybe not having expected Andy to be so agreeable, seems to have some of the fight drain out of her. She lowers her shoulders and doesn't sound quite as self-assured when she responds, "I know I do."

It then occurs to Andy, for the first time, that if Miranda's assistant is there, that means Miranda is, too, her presence perhaps mere feet away. She raises her head to look over the masses again, this time hoping to locate someone else, when Emily's voice brings her back to the moment, snooty again. "If you're looking for Miranda, you're not going to find her," she says, much to Andy's surprise, confusion, and, she realizes, chagrin. But then she continues, "Because you're leaving."

"I am?" she mutters, bemused.

Emily takes a step closer. "I know what you did," she accuses, her eyes narrowed into dark slits. "I don't know exactly what happened, but I do know that you quit in the middle of the last fashion week, without so much as a notice, might I add, and who do you think she called to demand I find her a new assistant for the rest of the week? Not to mention the bloody rotten mood she was in when she came back."

Grimacing, Andy deflates, shrinking away. "I'm really sorry, Emily," she apologizes and means it. "I didn't mean for things to turn out the way they did."

"Of course you didn't. But Andy always thinks about Andy, doesn't she?" Emily retorts. "So now you need to leave before she sees you and you ruin _this_ fashion week for me, too."

"I... really don't think--" Andy begins but falters at Emily's intensifying glare. "Okay," she quietly relents. "Let me just find my photographer." In response, Emily's head jerks to the side, as though signaling that she should get on with it, and so Andy does, leaving without a word of goodbye in search of Eric.

She pushes her way between glamorous models and designers, hoping that the interviews she's conducted so far will make up for some lost because worse than her boss' wrath is Emily's and she's not about to be yelled at again, not when her head is throbbing. Thankully, from a few feet away, she sees Eric making his way toward her, camera clutched in both his hands even as it's held around his neck by a strap.

"Check this out." He sidles up to her, for once sounding marginally excited, and holds the camera out for her to look at the screen. "I caught The Donald touching a model's ass. Think Greg will publish it?"

"I doubt anyone would be surprised," Andy replies distractedly. "Listen, can we go? I think I have all I need," she lies. She wishes, though, that Eric didn't look so happy to oblige.

"Just say the word."

"The word," she says and leads him in the direction of the exit. They "oops" and "excuse me" their way through the people around and as they're about to walk out, Andy looks up one last time, sees a flash of white, and freezes. At that exact moment, mid-conversation with a smartly-dressed man, Miranda looks up as well. Their eyes meet. And over every other head in the room, they don't look away.

Miranda doesn't smile or offer a gesture of "hello." Why should she? Andy surely doesn't expect her to. But her gaze is penetrating nonetheless, catching Andy's breath with its sole focus, and it sends a shiver up her spine.

"You okay?" Eric's voice snaps her out of her reverie, and in the second it takes her to lose concentration and look back at him, Miranda looks away, because when Andy seeks her out again, she's already re-engaged in her conversation as if she never stopped.

"Yeah," Andy murmurs. "Let's go."

\---

It's that same evening that she exits the _Plaza Athénée_ 's elevator onto the suite floor, the same one she shared with Miranda just the year before. The sound of her heels, albeit muffled by the carpeted floor, echoes off the walls as she passes white doors, golden-framed mirrors, and wall candle holders, clutching a bottle in her hand, its thawing exterior leaving her palm cool and damp.

Upon reaching the Suite Royale, she stills and gathers her wits. Then she raises a steady hand and knocks three times.

Moments later, the door opens to reveal bare feet. Their owner is otherwise dressed impeccably in a stunning, off-the-shoulder midi dress that puts Andy's black pencil skirt and blazer combo to shame, its dark, navy color bringing out the striking blue of her eyes. Her hair is as perfectly coiffed as ever, her makeup expertly applied; but for the lack of shoes, she looks ready to grab her purse and head out.

"I brought champagne," Andy announces cheerfully, holding the chilled bottle up. Miranda purses her lips, but only to control her smile, and a moment later she steps aside to let Andy through.

They settle on the vintage loveseat in the sitting room, Miranda leaning against the armrest as Andy fetches two flutes from the kitchenette and, despite the relative space on the chair, sits down not two inches away from Miranda. She leans toward the coffee table as Miranda watches silently, and carefully pops open the cork before filling each flute with the bubbly, foaming liquid. When she's done, she turns to Miranda, hands her one of the glasses, and with a dazzling smile leans in for a kiss.

"Hi," she giggles in delight once they part, starting to feel giddy despite not having taken a single sip yet.

"Hello," Miranda says softly and takes a sip of her own, keeping her eyes on Andy. Andy does the same, and the champagne tastes a lot better than the previous night now that she's drinking it with Miranda.

"I missed you," she confesses quietly, draping her free arm over Miranda's crossed knees.

"You saw me last week," Miranda points out.

"Exactly." Miranda, predictably, rolls her eyes, but does a very poor job of disguising her contentment. Andy takes one more sip of her champagne before depositing the glass on the table and turning further in Miranda's direction. "How's the week going so far?"

"Fine," Miranda replies mildly, ever the elaborator. "Haven't been abandoned yet."

Blowing air out of her nostrils, Andy lowers her head to Miranda's shoulder, but allows herself to be amused nonetheless. After all, she wouldn't be here if Miranda hadn't forgiven her long ago. Still, Miranda places a finger under her chin and brings her face up for a sweet kiss that takes the sting out and leaves Andy grinning.

"Did you enjoy the show today?" she questions.

"Definitely," Andy answers honestly. "That colorful chiffon dress? Wow."

"Hmm," Miranda hums, her smile growing fond, whether at Andy's exclamation or the memory is unclear. But nevertheless, she's gorgeous. "Indeed." She sets her glass on the table and continues, "Why did you leave so early?"

Andy's own smile turns secretive, sly. "Emily kicked me out." Miranda arches an eyebrow. "I don't know if you've noticed, but people seem to be under the impression that you're some fire-breathing dragon who eats innocent souls for breakfast." She leans closer, fingering the soft material of Miranda's dress. "If only they knew that they're right."

That startles a gust of air out of Miranda's lips, but really, it's meant to be a laugh. "You haven't seen the worst of me, darling."

"Do I look scared?"

They smile at each other, and Andy closes the distance for another kiss, this one more thorough. When it's over, Andy moves away even as Miranda unconsciously chases her lips for a renewed contact, her eyes beginning to cloud over. Reaching for her drink, Andy asks, "When do you have to leave for your dinner?"

"Not yet," murmurs Miranda, who's already starting to pull Andy's blazer down her shoulder, the tips of her fingers tickling the skin underneath. She immediately feels it between her legs as well and abandons her flute, leaning back into Miranda.

"Do we have time?" she mumbles, fiddling with the top of Miranda's dress before sliding her hand up her chest, her neck.

"We'll make time," answers Miranda and promptly kisses her. Both their lipsticks have been smeared off by now, but Andy can't find it in herself to care. She presses against Miranda, their breasts rubbing together through their layers of fabric, and deepens the kiss, cupping the side of Miranda's head and running her thumb back and forth against one pronounced cheekbone. She twists her body, straddling Miranda's closest leg; Miranda, in response, runs a hand down her ass.

"Do you have something to wear tomorrow?" she mumbles against Andy's lips, unprompted.

Already beginning to feel delirious with need, Andy merely hums her answer and adds, "Got lots of new stuff."

She tries to keep kissing Miranda's lips, but is interrupted when Miranda continues, "Wear a nice gown."

Her words distract Andy from her attempts long enough to draw back, frowning. "What will I need a gown for?" As far as her intinerary indicates, none of her impending events will require anything as formal as a gown. Perhaps a cocktail dress or a smart blouse with a skirt.

"The Federation's ball," Miranda casually replies. The "Federation" in question is the _French Federation of Fashion and of Ready-to-Wear Couturiers and Fashion Designers_ , AKA the governing body for the French fashion industry and the organizers of Paris Fashion Week. Their ball, which seals Fashion Week every year, hosts all the participants of the event: models, designers, guests, various fashion personnel, and of course magazine editors such as Miranda Priestly. Only a handful of reporters are granted entrance to the party, though, its organisers opting to leave the press that has hounded every show and luncheon throughout the week out so their guests could simply let go and have a good time. Well, by the fashion industry's standards. But that means that lowly reporter Andy Sachs from the New York newspaper no one's heard of has naturally not been granted an invitation.

Which is all right with her, it really is. After all, the only reason she jumped on the opportunity to attend Fashion Week again was for the chance to be with Miranda instead of missing her for a whole week. But now it seems--and this can't just be the few sips of champagne she had--that Miranda is, in fact, inviting her. Inviting her to a ritzy ball where all the who's who of her world will be in attendance, and where she'll inevitably reveal to the whole world that for the better part of a year she's been dating Andy.

Head swimming, Andy sits back on a folded leg, staring at Miranda incomprehensively. Miranda, who is the picture of serenity. "You want me to come with you to the Federation's ball?" she mutters, just to make sure she got it right.

Miranda, who just loves repeating herself, answers, "That's what I said, isn't it?" Not in so many words, but Andy will let it pass because she's too busy wrapping her head around this new development.

"But... everyone will know," she stammers to Miranda, who's beginning to lose her patience. "I-I mean... are you sure you're ready for that?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I weren't," says Miranda, her tone unwontedly gentle, and closes her fingers around Andy's wrist, tugging her closer.

"Really?" Andy squeaks, feeling the beginning of a smile pulling at her lips.

"Are you?" Miranda asks softly, staring intently at her.

"Am I what?"

"Ready."

A breath escapes Andy's lips in a rush and then she's smiling fully, settling next to Miranda again and rubbing her thumb across lips that have lost all traces of the lipstick previously applied. Her eyes crinkle as she meets Miranda's expectant gaze, and slowly she lowers her head and gives her a very soft kiss. "Yes," she whispers and pulls back. "I'm ready."

There's no mistaking the satisfaction in Miranda's eyes--and Andy thinks she sees relief in there, too--and just that was worth it to say yes. But it's also worth so much more: no more secrecy, no more hiding and sneaking around; from now on, they'll be able to go out for dinner and walk hand in hand on the street; Andy will no longer be Miranda's dirty, little secret, but the person Miranda chose, and everyone will know that Andy Sachs loves Miranda Priestly.

It's amazing how much can change in one year, and how much more change is bound to occur--both good and bad, but for once, Andy isn't afraid.

Picking both their flutes from the table, now dripping with condensation, she hands one to Miranda. "Cheers," she says, cheerful indeed, and clinks them together.

**Author's Note:**

> I made the whole ball thing up lmao I don't know what happens at Fashion Week.


End file.
